


8 am

by poetryproliferation



Category: Next to Normal, Next to Normal - Kitt/Yorkey
Genre: Diana's stream of consiousness, Gen, Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetryproliferation/pseuds/poetryproliferation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When did the crying stop?</p>
            </blockquote>





	8 am

The first time you get a full night's sleep again, you feel like a monster. In the blurry amnesia of awakening, all you feel is refreshed, renewed. You wonder why you feel like you haven't felt this way in a while, and why nostalgia flies through your heart in memory of a simpler time.  
Then the net bursts, the dam breaks, and memory rushes at you so violently you are flung back into your bed, breathless. The weight of misery, now partnered with a sickening guilt. How could anything seem normal again? How could your body betray you so, moving on before you? How could you...  
It had been months, now, but every day felt like a decade. You used to rise every two hours or so, grumpy and yet a little joyful at the task you faced. In the weeks... after, you would sit up so suddenly in the night you woke your husband. His eyes were pitying, but hardly sad. After a month or so of those sudden wakeups, he asked, "why are you still doing that?"  
You trained yourself to wake up more gently after that question.  
God, you used to wish it'd just stop. Now you'd give anything to have it all back. Your ears long to hear that familiar wail, the endless crying of your...  
Sun filters into the room you used to rush into at midnight, 2 am, 4 am, 6 am, like clockwork. The door creaks a little, the familiar whine of an old door hinge. Your footsteps are silenced as your bare feet touch the white carpet.  
You drop the shades and return to sleep, kneeling next to the empty crib, your head on your arms, balanced carefully on the dark wood of the rails.  
The light has come, but you refuse to see it.


End file.
